


Ghost of a Tale

by POPP_Writing_Group



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bows & Arrows, Clint Barton's Bow & Arrows, Hawkeye - Freeform, Jewelry, POV First Person, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Avengers Clint Barton, Robbery, Special arrows, Stealing, clint barton - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:59:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/POPP_Writing_Group/pseuds/POPP_Writing_Group
Summary: He's no Avenger, no S.H.I.E.L.D agent, not even Hawkeye yet.  Just the Ghost, stealing things with his good old bow and arrow.





	Ghost of a Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Written by: Kayla

Jon's voice jerked me back to reality.  “Hey, Ghost.   _ Ghost!” _

I noticed how he stressed my code name, and gritted my teeth, resolving not to let him get under my skin.  “What?”

“You're spacing out, man.  Y'know, all I wanted was to give you the job and leave, but you're drifting off every time I meet with you.  What's the problem?  You don't want the jobs I give you?”

“I do,” I said, sliding both feet under the chair and trying to put my full attention on him.  “What is it?”

“Jewelry store.  Get in, get out, get as much as you can carry.  Here's the address.  I expect results in a week.”

I nodded, taking the small card he handed to me.  I started to get up, but Jon's voice compelled me to wait.  “And, Ghost. . . I know the signs for getting cold feet, and cold feet about a job isn't something I can afford any of my people to have.”  He paused.  “See that I don't see any more signs from you.”

I hesitated, then nodded roughly and left, gripping my bow so tightly that my knuckles were white.

That night, I walked along the sidewalk in front of the store, looking like any innocent midnight walker.  With a six-inch knife in his pocket.  Of course, my bow was too risky to bring with me on the first night, as I was just staking out the place, so to speak.  I had stashed it and my quiver inside a trash can one store away, just in case I needed it.

I looked inside the store, noting the tinted windows, drawn blinds, and lock on the door.  It would definitely be a struggle to get inside this one.  Was it worth it?  The thoughts I had had during my meeting with Jon came creeping back into my unwilling brain.  Then Jon's face flashed in my memory, his cold voice hissing.

_ Cold feet. . . getting cold feet. . . I know the signs. . . _

_ I am not getting cold feet.   _ Suddenly angry, I passed the jewelry store and started running toward where I had put my bow.   _ I'll do the job right now.   _ I grabbed the bow out of the trash can, slung my quiver on my back, and moved back toward the jewelry store.  My anger had subsided enough for me to have enough sense not to charge blindly into view-- I slipped quietly on the side of the building, and, putting my smallest arrow to the string, shot out the one security camera overlooking the street.  

Pulling out an arrow with a thin tip, I crept to the door of the store and began to pick the lock.  I had recently begun doing this with arrows, as a challenge to myself.  In previous attempts, it had gone smoothly and almost as quickly as my old lock-picking tools.  But this time, whether it was due to my anger, my mysteriously shaking hands, or the ever-growing, nagging feeling of reluctance, the lock stayed stubbornly shut, no matter how many times I twisted and jiggled the arrow point.  A minute passed as I breathed hard and focused and felt sweat trickling down my neck and my back, and all the while grew more and more frustrated and desperate.

With a muttered word that I instantly imagined my mom scolding me for saying, I stuffed the arrow back into my quiver and pulled my lock-picking tool from its place in my pocket.  With a twist, the familiar feel of the handle giving my fingers memory to do it the right way, the lock parted and I opened the door the tiniest bit.  No alarms went off, so I put my tool back in my pocket and stepped inside.  

Immediately, I saw that it would be even harder than I had thought.  A grate hung down between the door and the jewelry, attached on all sides and with such small holes it was impossible to pass.  I touched it.  Solid steel, at least an inch thick.  I curled my fingers into a hole and gripped it in silent panic.  What was I going to do?

With a shock of realization, I remembered two things that were an even bigger problem for me-- and a much more urgent one.  One, the cameras inside the building.  I was undoubtedly being videotaped right now, and I was immensely grateful for my mask and all black clothes, which would make it hard to identify me.  But problem number two was calling my name, and I glanced down at the floor, near the door.  A blinking red light confirmed my suspicions.  The silent alarm.

I needed to get out of here NOW.  I let go of the grate, kicked the troublesome alarm on my way out out of pure spite, and closed the door behind me.  I turned to find a gun pointed at my nose.

“Do.  Not.  Move,” growled the night watchman.  “Put the medieval weapon on the ground and put your hands behind your head.”

“How am I supposed to do that if I can't move?” I asked.

“Don't get smart with me, Robin Hood.  Put the bow down and put your hands behind your head.  The cops are on their way.”

“Okay, okay.  Just don't shoot me,” I said, adding a pleading tone to the last sentence.  The guard relaxed as I knelt down and placed my bow on the ground.  I kept my hand on it as I took my quiver off.  I could hear faint sirens in the distance, and they were getting louder.

“Hear that?” the watchman said smugly.  “You're going downtown, mister.  If you wanted to rob a place like this, you should've brought something better than a--”

I swung my bow at his legs and he flew backwards as it connected.  His gun fired in the air as he hit the ground, and I swung my quiver onto my back, grabbed my bow and ran.  I ran faster than I've ever run before, my legs pumping up and down and my feet barely touching the ground.

“Stop!” the guard screamed, and I heard the gun fire again.  All I could do was keep running and hope I didn't get hit.  My luck held through two more shots, each one shattering my nerves if not my body.  I saw my car where I had parked it behind another store, but I also saw the guard chasing me and knew I wouldn't have a chance if I stopped now and tried to get away.  If he didn't catch me while I tried to start it and drive away, he would see the license plate number and. . . either way it would be over for me.

I kept running and passed my car.  Once I was far enough ahead of my vigilant pursuer, I ducked to the side and and hid while he ran past me, shouting some very unpleasant things.  Then I emerged and ran back to my car, feeling like a character from a cartoon I'd seen once when we were kids.  Mom and Dad hadn't been too pleased with that character's actions, and had ruled that we couldn't watch it again.  Now I wondered, as I started the car and drove away as fast as I could, (without breaking the speed limit.  Heaven knows I didn't need more cops after me!) what would Mom and Dad have thought of  _ my  _ actions tonight?

There it was.  The reason for all my secret thoughts, my reluctance, my “cold feet”.  Mom and Dad.  I sighed and blinked away the sweat in my eyes as I sped up and ran through a yellow light.  Mom and Dad.  How long had it been now?  How much had I changed since then from who I used to be?

I braked suddenly to avoid running a red light.  See, all these philosophical questions had me disregarding basic traffic safety rules.  I had to focus.  To focus on. . . something else.

“I was almost arrested tonight,” I said aloud to my car.  “Goodbye, Ghost.  Hello, jail time.  Why was that?”

My car gave me a meditative silence.

“I was definitely not at my best tonight,” I said, quieter.  “My equipment was. . . not at its best.”

I glanced over at my bow and quiver lying in the passenger seat.  Some of the arrows had spilled out of the quiver and were lying randomly on the floor.  I thought of the guard's words.

_ If you wanted to rob a place like this, you should've brought something better than a-- _

“My bow can be better,” I said slowly.  “My arrows can be better.  I can be better.”

All I needed was a few small things.

  


\-------------------------------------

Jon looked up from my list in disbelief.  “You've gotta be kidding me, Ghost.”

“Thank you, and no-- I am not kidding you.  I do need those things if I'm going to get you your payload.”  I didn't mention my failed first attempt.  I leaned back and raised my eyebrows, as I felt this made me look unconcerned.  And cool.

Jon apparently didn't think so.  “Concentrated acid?  A localized EMP?  Tranquilizer gas?  What makes you think I even have those things-- and if I did, that I would let you have them for who-knows-what?”  He leaned back.  “Besides, I thought you were the arrow guy.”

“Oh, I am the arrow guy.”  I pulled out an arrow from my quiver and casually inspected its razor-sharp tip.  “If I wanted to kill you with this arrow, I could.  But I don't want to kill you, or anyone else for that matter.  I want those things,” I nodded toward the list, “so I won't have to.  Even if you don't have them-- although I'm 95% sure you have at least two of them-- you know where to get them.  So please.”  I twirled the arrow between my fingers and grinned.  “Get them for me.  I promise, you won't regret it.”

Jon stared at me for a long minute.  “Are your cold feet gone?”

I felt like putting an appraising hand to my foot just to tease him, but then again, Jon didn't usually react so well to being made fun of.  “Yes.  I'm ready to do this job, and I want to do it right.”

Jon looked at me hard a second longer, then nodded and leaned forward.  “I'll see what I can do.”

My next week was spent in a makeshift lab, putting together my brilliant ideas.  I found that the acid Jon eventually supplied me with would dissolve all metal substances, glass, and organic matter, and was kept in a plastic container-- which I found, quite frankly, terrifying.  I found a lightweight plastic material that was strong enough to hold the acid and sustain bumps of up to two miles an hour, but that would shatter if exposed to pressure of higher than ten miles an hour-- like the speed of my arrows.  The EMP and tranquilizer gas arrived without too many problems, as these were the two things I had predicted that Jon already had in his possession.  

When I was ready to leave after the week of painstaking preparation, I contacted Jon to see if he still wanted me to go after the same store.  I had forgotten I had never told him about my failed first attempt.

“What do you mean, 'the same store'?” Jon said.  Even over the phone, his voice gave me the shivers.  

“Oh.  Ah, well, you see. . .”

“GHOST!” Jon bellowed.  “They'll expect you now.  You'll never get in there, and you'll get caught, and security will double-- triple, even.  I'll never get what I need from there.  Just stay home-- I'll send someone else.”

“What?!” I was angry now.  “No, sorry Jon, not happening.  I'm getting this job done.  I have the special--”

“Enough with the special arrows!” Jon shouted.  “You'll fail.  I don't know why I helped you in the first place.  I'm calling this thing off, so you'd better not--”

“Oooh, sorry, bad connection.  What's that?  You want me to go ahead with the job?  Oh, okay, if you say so!”

“Ghost, I'm warning you--”

Click.  I shut the phone.  I stood there a moment in silent contemplation of how furious I'd just made Jon.  I imagined him dancing on the table, screaming about his lost diamonds.  The thought was so entertaining I felt better about going to get them for him.  

I hopped in the car, gunned the gas pedal, and sped away.

And promptly sped right back again, went in the house, retrieved my forgotten bow and quiver, hopped in the car, and sped away.  Again. 

                             -------------------------------------

  


As I peered around the corner, I noticed that doubled security Jon had been talking about.  Three guards walked back and forth, guns hanging at their belts.  It would be next to impossible to get past them.

Perfect.

I reached back into my quiver and felt the squared tip of one of the special arrows I'd made.  I pulled it out, set it to the string, and waited.  When the three guards were the closest together, I fired into the midst of them.  When the arrow struck the ground, it burst and released a the tranquilizer gas I had gotten from Jon.  It curled around them and one after another, they slowly dropped to the ground.  

I crept forward a few paces and drew a normal arrow, picking my tranquilizer arrow from the ground as I passed it.  I shot out the camera again, then the newly added one above the door, aiming both of so that the arrows fell to the ground after.  I retrieved both arrows, then moved toward the jewelry store.  Before I tried to pick the lock, I drew my EMP arrow-- I had made it as small and as light as possible-- and put it to my bow.  I set the tip against the glass and squinted, imagining it going through the bars of the metal grate perfectly and hitting my target.  I stepped back about two feet, inhaled, exhaled, and shot.

The arrow punctured the glass with a quiet crunch, flew through a square in the grate, and hit the back wall of the store.  It sparked once, then twice, and suddenly it was alive with electricity and all of the blinking red lights along the wall dissolved into blackness as the EMP shorted out the security cameras-- and the silent alarm.  I waited for a moment until it stopped sparking, then pulled out my lock-picking tool, picked the lock quickly, and opened the door.

And now for my old foe.  I pulled out my last special arrow and observed the glowing white liquid in the cylindrical container on the tip.  

“Say hello to my little friend,” I whispered to the impenetrable metal grate.  Yes, I was talking to an inanimate object again.  I quickly stepped back, put the acid arrow to the string, drew back, and fired.  The arrow struck a bar and exploded, sending ribbons of glowing liquid all over the metal grate.  I turned aside and waited for about thirty seconds, then turned back and stepped through the hole in the formerly impenetrable grate without a second thought.

I was in.

I walked quickly to the back of the store, pulled my EMP arrow from the wall and put it back in my quiver with the others.  I jumped over the the glass counters with ease, knelt down, picked the lock on the display case-- with an arrow this time, success had steadied my hand-- and pulled the drawer out.  Diamonds, sparkling even in the dim light, looked out at me.  I pulled out a small bag, picked out the ones with the largest price tags, then moved on.  I gathered at least five from each display case, pausing every so often to scoff in disbelief at the prices.  

“Oh, come on,” I whispered as I slipped a ring into the bag.  “$3,000 for this?  And it even has a 'discount' sign underneath it.”

A thin necklace?  $700.  A pair of stud earrings?  $500.  I could hardly believe I was leaving them behind for being too inexpensive. 

When I had gathered the most expensive pieces  in the room, I stepped back through the hole in the grate, picking up my acid arrow on the way out.  The remaining traces of acid fizzling on the bars were slowly dissipating, and I was satisfied that there was no evidence left that the person who had robbed the place was an archer.

“Farewell,” I whispered to the store-- another inanimate object.  Was I developing a complex of some kind?

I put the bag of diamonds at the bottom of my quiver, kept a firm grip on my bow, and left, locking the door behind me as I did so.

  


  -------------------------------------

  


“Well, Ghost,” Jon said, appraising the diamonds spread across the table, “I can hardly believe you pulled it off, but that was a good job.”

“Did I hear actual praise come out of your mouth?”

“You never heard me-- it didn't happen.  Here's your payment, and. . . I hope to hear from you again.  I have some other jobs that I might get done better if you help me get them done.”

“As long as you help me get the supplies I need,” I replied, fingering the tip of an arrow.  The special arrows had done the job well.  I was going to keep on using them, and maybe find a way to keep on getting new ones.  The possibilities were endless.

Jon reached out a hand.  “It's a deal, Ghost.  Got any ideas in mind?”

I took his hand and shook firmly, my eyes focused on a blueprint for a miniscule explosive Jon had in his folder.  “Yeah. . . yeah, I think I might.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments!


End file.
